<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Freeze and Thaw by Orockthro</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29650830">Freeze and Thaw</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orockthro/pseuds/Orockthro'>Orockthro</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Growing Roots [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Mandalorian (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Carbonite Freezing (Star Wars), Excessive Star Wars research, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, POV Migs Mayfield, Planet Bespin (Star Wars), Planet Herdessa (Star Wars), Post-Season/Series 02, Season 2 Mandalorian Spoilers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:28:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,461</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29650830</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orockthro/pseuds/Orockthro</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Something glints in the bright Herdessa sun and catches his eye.<br/>And huh. Migs can honestly say it’s a surprise. Turns out his mama was right about that, too: it is a small galaxy.<br/>For a minute Migs thinks about running. He’s got a pocket full of credits and Jeffers isn’t the kind to chase after him. But there’s a curiosity pulling at Migs’s belly, and he’s never been one not to chase that feeling. <br/>He shoves himself to his feet and goes to chase that shine.<br/>“Oi! Mando!”</p><p>(Or, Mayfield is running odd jobs and the Mando is certainly odd... and they come together again.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Din Djarin &amp; Migs Mayfeld</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Growing Roots [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2245248</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>146</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Fic is all complete, just editing the last two chapters. Everything will be posted in the next day or two.<br/>This fandom continues to punch me in the face with feelings and writing fic is apparently the only available option my brain has for coping.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The job isn’t illegal, in the sense that politics move slow. For someone like Migs Mayfield, whose chain code says he’s a dead prisoner of the New Republic, it’s about the best sorta job he’s gonna get. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Plus, it pays good. A perk of the sort of job that might wind up with him </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>dead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, what are you doing, smelling the flowers, get a move on.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You try doing this, Magshole,” Jeffers shouts up at him through the respirator. Migs is not fond of his boss or the nickname he’s selected for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tractor beam in the belly of the ship is low powered but plenty decent enough to slurp the gas off Bespin’s sloughy surface when they’re positioned deep like this. The trick is getting enough gas to fill the carbonite freezing chambers in the ship’s loading bay, but not so much that they all blow up. Migs is content to leave that job the hell alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re doing great, Jeffers. Just great. Fabulous, even. But we have another ship, looks like eight minutes away at current speed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shut up, I’m almost there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bespin looks kinda pretty from Cloud City, or so Migs has heard. From here, practically in the gas layer itself, it looks much more like something out of a nightmare. The viewfield on the ship is almost entirely orange gas, noxiously swirling around them. They’re in one of the naturally occurring flares that crop up on the surface where gas-- that sweet, sweet tibanna gas-- spurts up to a height where a ship with a mid range tractor beam, a high tolerance for risk and potential death, and a carbonite freezing set up has a shot at a priceless haul without the infrastructure or the permits of a place like Cloud City. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And where there’s a flare of priceless gas there’s going to be more than one ship looking to cash in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay make it four minutes, they’re fast little kriffers!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Almost there!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Migs watches the steady progression of the green dot on the radar. It’s making him sweat under the dank respirator. “Seriously, come on already!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The flare’s temperature starts to drop and shows signs of waning which means that this new ship won’t be gentle when it comes, trying to get its bite of the tibanna crop before it flickers out. And if that ship comes in too hot, burning a little too much thruster? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kinda like dejavu, actually. Migs swallows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got it!” Jeffers is shouting, and there’s the pneumatic hiss of the bay doors closing and the even sweeter hiss of seven blocks of carbonite all freezing over at once. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Migs jams his finger over the air recycler and then eases the ship off the gas flare as gently as he can. He’s not a gentle guy, but when he’s in a tin can above a giant bomb he does his best. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jeffers drops into the seat beside Migs and slaps off his respirator. “They gonna blow it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Migs chances glancing up from the readouts to the viewscreen. The ship is taking their place on the waning edge of the gas flare, but moving a little fast. Running a little hot. Kriff, how did Migs end up here? How did he once again wind up driving a rig with his ass riding right next to certain fiery death...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Might do, yeah.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They don’t stay to find out. When there's enough space between them and the gas giant Migs punches it for hyperspace, his gentleness evaporating alongside Bespin’s wispy memory. Once it’s frozen in carbonite tibanna gas is as stable as a rock which is more than Migs can say for his nerves.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His heart is still racing and he turns to Jeffers. “By the way, I quit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sticks around long enough to land them on Herdessa, offload their seven glorious carbonite-frozen bricks of gas, and get paid. Even after Jeffers takes a cut for owning the ship, a cut for the carbonite used, and takes yet another cut for being the boss and running the most dangerous part of the operation, Migs is left with a real pretty payout. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ever since the Empire moved out of Cloud City and the New Republic moved in and they started having to actually pay the Ugnaughts for processing the volatile gas, export of tibanna out of Anoat Sector has been short. And since tibanna gas goes into hyperdrive fuel... Supply and demand go hand in hand his mama always used to say.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Migs rolls the stack of credits happily in his hands. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not that I don’t appreciate the job, Jeffers--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever Magshole. Stick around long enough to help me re-fit the carbonite for another run and I’ll give you another two hundred credits. You’re not the only getaway pilot out there and I’ll replace you easy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jeffers isn’t a nice guy, but he’s fair. “Got yourself a deal.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Herdessa doesn’t have a lot going for it. It’s ugly. It smells. But it’s on the Corellian hyperspace run and there’s no shortage of people buying, selling, and stealing in whatever order they choose. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jeffers is arguing loudly with a carbonite vendor in Huttese in one of the many pop up refit shops while Migs leans against the landing gear of Jeffers’s ship. The first thing Migs will buy with his credits will be jula juice. It’s hot as Jakku here, and there’s nothing sweeter than jula juice over ice, and he hasn’t had any since he went to prison. Or maybe he’ll buy some of those buns that one kid was selling a few streets over...</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something glints in the bright Herdessa sun and catches his eye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And huh. Migs can honestly say it’s a surprise. Turns out his mama was right about that, too. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a small galaxy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a minute Migs thinks about running. He’s got a pocket full of credits and Jeffers isn’t the kind to chase after him. But there’s a curiosity pulling at Migs’s belly, and he’s never been one </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> to chase that feeling. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shoves himself to his feet and goes to chase that shine.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oi! Mando!”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Look ya'll I went to extreme bother to come up with a reason for these two to be in the same place hahah.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It turns out Herdessa is the place to go for carbonite outfitting on this side of the galaxy. As Migs walks over he can hear the Mandalorian arguing with a vendor in shitty Huttese about the price per foot of pressure hose for a new install and he’s threatening to go to one of the three other carbonite vendors within spitting range. </p><p>Something about the Mando looks different but Migs can’t put his finger on it. He closes the distance between them and doesn’t wait for an invitation to speak. </p><p>“Mando, fancy seeing you again. Please tell me you’re not taking up tibanna mining, cause I gotta tell you, it’s not as glamorous as you think.”</p><p>Migs watches the helmet pause and turn to stare him down. Migs isn’t a small guy, but standing under the Mandalorian-- even after their amiable parting-- in his shiny get-up Mayfield will cop to feeling a bit intimidated. </p><p>“Mayfield.”</p><p>Then Migs figures out what’s missing from the scene. No kid. That was the whole reason for the shit show that was Morak a month and a half ago. They risked their asses getting blown sky high for the kid. They infiltrated a kriffing remnant Imperial stronghold for the kid. Migs saw his pretty brown eyes, all for the kid. </p><p>And that’s what’s different. No kid.</p><p>For once in his kriffing life Migs keeps his mouth shut until Mando has concluded haggling for what looks like a complete re-outfitting of a ship with a carbonite freezing chamber and storage. It costs almost as much as Migs’s payout from Jeffers and the vendor, a humanoid with long teeth, is grinning from ear to ear over the sale. </p><p>“Damn, Mando. You get a new ship?” The Razor Crest had been older than shit and beat to hell, but he’d bet his nose Mando would just keep patching it until the patches had grandchildren unless something drastic happened to it.</p><p>The back of Migs’s brain itches. <em> No kid. </em></p><p>“Something like that,” Mando says, and kriff, the buckethead is walking back towards a different space bay. At least he’s not hard to follow; he’s practically a walking mirror in the sun like this. Migs trots after him, still not entirely sure why. His business with the Mando was complete: he did the guy a solid after trying to get him killed for Ran. They were square. </p><p>But that damn curiosity. It’s getting him again.</p><p>“Come on, have a drink for old time’s sake? I just got paid.” Which is an unwise thing to advertise in a place like Herdessa. But sometimes Migs is unwise. Make that frequently. </p><p>Mando is being trailed by the carbonite vendor and a passel of droids carting his newly acquired kit and, being the stupid bastard he is, Migs trails behind them, too. Jeffers will be fine, and he’s pretty sure that if he hoofs it back for his extra couple of hundred credits he’ll never see the Mando again. And for whatever reason, that doesn’t sit right with him.</p><p>Mando’s new ship is not half bad. It’s got mostly one paint job, which is a shocking departure from his previous ship, and it looks like it came out of a shipyard within their generation rather than a few lifetimes before it. All in all, it’s not a bad upgrade. It’s bigger, too. He’d be willing to be there’s a whole set of cabins in that thing, not just the little cubby he used to stash the kid in. </p><p>
  <em> No kid. </em>
</p><p>The asshole that he is, Migs happily invites himself into the ship. “Hey don’t shoot me, okay,” he yells up as he steps through the open loading bay filled with half installed carbonite machinery.</p><p>The ship layout isn’t that much different from Jeffers’s ship and has a passing resemblance to the Razor Crest, too. In the end, most ships are pretty similar. They’ve got a bay if you do anything with cargo, got a place to sleep and shit-- if you’re lucky they’re even different places-- a place to house the terrifying stuff that makes the ship fly, and a place to fly it. The bay on the Mando’s new ship is small but it fits the carbonite system with room to spare, especially since the place isn’t cluttered up yet. In fact, it hardly looks lived in at all. </p><p>Mando is looming over the installation team, staring down every wire solder and join and Migs has to hold in a chortle, because of course the man would be an overbearing micromanager, what with the giant stick of beskar up his ass. He keeps it in, though, and even exercises a bit of patience while he waits the whole kriffing process out. It doesn’t take too long: the bounty hunter style carbonite freezing chambers are quick installs. Bolt it in, hook it up to the power, done.</p><p>When they finally leave and the loading door seals shut with Migs and Mando still inside, he says, “It’s a nice ship.”</p><p>He expects Mando to say, <em> Thanks </em> or <em> kriff you </em> or something of the like. Instead he watches as Mando reaches his gloved hands up and takes his own damned helmet off. </p><p>“Kriff! Warn a guy will you!”</p><p>He’s trying not to look, but he definitely saw that hair again. It’s exactly the same shade of brown that he remembers. He tosses a hand up over his eyes. “What the hells, Mando. You got an itch you can’t stand or something?”</p><p>There’s a slow inhalation of breath and it sounds so human without the helmet mucking it up. He hadn’t had time to appreciate it back on Morak. He was all terror and horror then. </p><p>“You can put your hand down.”</p><p>“You have got to be shitting me!” He puts his hand down, because kriff this, Migs is old and tired and curious and technically dead. “After all that Mandalorian-this Mandalorian-that bullshit--”</p><p>He stops talking. </p><p>Mando looks like bantha shit. </p><p>“Oh hells, the kid died didn’t he.” </p><p>Mando’s face is pretty much the same as Migs remembers. Soft, with downy facial hair, big brown eyes and wavy hair. Only he’s eyes are bruised from exhaustion and his lips are chapped and nothing about him looks quite right. Migs knows what looking like that feels like-- he’s been there himself. </p><p>“No,” Mando says, and it would be a relief except his voice breaks on the word. “No he’s not dead. We got him safe. He’s with his people, other sorcerers. Everything went well.” A pause and he bites his lower lip and Migs can’t help but stare. “Thank you, I wouldn’t have found him without you.”</p><p>There’s... a lot to parse in all that. And it’s possibly the most he’s heard the Mando say in one run ever. Migs shoes it all back into his brain for later. </p><p>“Not dead is good. Since you’re showing your face and all now,” and there’s a lot to parse about <em> that </em> too, “let’s get drunk. My treat. Told you I got paid.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>All complete. :)<br/>Thanks for reading ya'll!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He gets a promise on something Mandalorian-sounding that the Mando will not disappear as soon as his back is turned and Migs pops out into town to exchange some of his hard earned credits for booze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes him all of ten minutes to get a nice sized flask of the local moonshine , but another five to wander back, and then five to argue with Jeffers who sees him and is perhaps understandably pissed about having to haul a tonne of carbonite gas back to the ship on his own because anti gravity sleds or not, it’s a hot day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They each take a punch and walk off and mostly things are okay. It’s very manly and stupid and that’s about par for the course for how his day is going. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sit down Mando,” he says when he waltzes back through the ship’s loading bay doors. “You and I are gonna get drunk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>First, though, they each pile up their blasters and blades in the corner. “Look I know you could kill me with your littlest finger, but it’s just good form, alright? Guns go there,” he says to their substantial pile of armament, “and no one gets jumpy this way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They sit on the floor like hired guns a lot younger than either of them are. Migs sprawls against the wall closest to the hatch leading up to the cockpit, and the Mando takes the bit of curved bulkhead that keeps his sightlines open towards the closed bay door. Being old also means also ready for things to go sideways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhat to his surprise, the Mando agrees to his weapons pile, and Migs pours out a long measure into two ugly brown mess mugs. He shoves one into a Mando’s bare hands. No gloves, apparently, to go along with no helmet. He’s got freckles all over his knuckles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Migs drinks a large gulp of the reddish alcohol because he needs it. Liquid courage. In this case it’s liquid coping. The moonshine tastes like rotted tubers and he winces as it goes down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least he’s not drinking alone. Mando follows his gulp with a more moderate one of his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is...” he coughs. “Not very good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Migs nods. “Nope, it’s horseshit, and I paid way too much money for it.” He has another swallow. “Have to admit, I kinda figured you wouldn’t know any better.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Mando breaks into a small smile and it’s the first smile Migs has ever seen on the man and kriffing hell he needs another drink. Because even as beat-up as Mando looks, it’s a damned nice smile. It’s small and soft under his scruffy facial hair and it makes Migs want to see him smile wider just to see what it would look like. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile disappears pretty quick, though. “I lived having sworn the creed for twenty five years. I found ways to experience the world within the creed, as did the others in my tribe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, ah. You want to talk about that?” he waggles his fingers towards the helmet, sitting beside Mando like a glimmering shadow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fair enough.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They drink mostly in silence for a bit. Migs slows down once a buzz starts to set in. He is a little concerned this swill will turn him blind if he hits it too hard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually he caves. Migs wasn’t built for silence. “I am glad the kid’s not dead. I’m surprised you gave him up, honestly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was the whole purpose. To get him safe. He wouldn’t be safe with me.” Mando’s whole face is downturned and crushed at the admission, but sounds resolute, and what the hell does Migs know, maybe he’s right. He’d talked about sorcerers, which is definitely not in Migs’s wheelhouse either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And now? You got a purpose now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches Mando’s throat as he swallows another mouthful of drink. He sets the mug down in front of him on the floor of the ship like he needs to be sober, in spirit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am going to find what’s left of my tribe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Migs hadn’t been expecting that. Going back into bounty hunting, sure. He’d just paid top credit to have a carbon freezing system installed, it seemed logical. Or maybe he’d go hunt imperial factions like had been stationed out on Morak. Also seemed in line with the hunter that the Mandalorian was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it makes a sad sort of sense. “Yeah I get that. Your kid is gone and you want family. Where are they at, anyway. Where do little Mandos come from that Mandalore is a shining ball of glass?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which, okay, was probably a little insensitive. But Migs is buzzed and feeling loose and incautious. It’s not the only explanation as to why he’s an asshole sometimes, but it’s a convenient one. Maybe Jeffers was right all along. Migs Mayfield the asshole. Magshole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to explain the joke to Mando but it doesn’t really work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mando, though, powers through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re all in hiding, what’s left of them. When I left with the child Moff Gideon had many of them killed. I have no idea how many live, or where, or how to find them. Until I do, I won’t have the answers I need.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mando isn’t looking at Migs, which he’s discovering is fairly par for the course. The man’s gaze flickers around like a bird, and when he does make eye contact it’s short and stuttering. It makes sense: he’s not used to making eye contact and hasn’t had anyone look him dead in the eye since he was a kid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Migs looks him dead in the eye. “Yeah, big burning questions for when you find them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Migs watches Mando’s face again. He can’t help it, the man’s face is just so expressive. His eyes slide away and land firmly on his drink and Migs might be losing it, might be tipsier than he thought, but he’s pretty sure the man is blushing a bit.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. You could say that.” Mando takes a drink that looks an awful lot like Migs’s first big gulp for courage slash coping. He pulls out something from a hip pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to weapons in the pile, Mando, huh? You’ve been holding out on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mando ignores him, which is probably the best choice, all things considered. The loading bay is pleasantly spinny. The lights aren’t bad. They’re kinda soft, mostly white but with some yellow in them. It makes the bay feel homey. He clearly needs more alcohol, risk of blindness be damned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got it off Moff Gideon.” Migs adds this to ‘sorcerers’ and ‘the creed’ as ‘topics to deal with some time later perhaps when we’re all dead.’ But Mando isn’t done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Turns out I’m the king of Mandalore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Migs drains his cup. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mando nods. “Hm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Need a crew?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there is that smile again. Kriffing hells, he’s pretty sure none of this would be happening if he hadn’t seen Mando’s big brown eyes back on Morak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those big brown eyes that are smiling at him right now. Twinkling even.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crew share.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kriff that. Officer’s share or I walk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile is still on those lips and Migs is grinning back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you walk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Migs shakes his head. “Nah. Weirdest thing, Mando, but I don’t think I would.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Din,” Mando says, and he levers himself off the cold durasteel of the loading bay and offers Migs a hand up. He takes it, and touches him for the first time. His skin is soft. He’s human under all that beskar after all. “My name is Din.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm *considering* a sequel to this but haven't decided on it one way or the other. <br/>Thoughts? :)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Comments are love. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>